


Kholodnyy

by RueRambunctious



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blow Jobs, Boss/Employee Relationship, Dacha, Hypothermia, Long-Suffering Sebastian, M/M, Russia, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2019-12-25 23:40:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18271448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RueRambunctious/pseuds/RueRambunctious
Summary: Sebastian Moran is built for bloody altercations in the Middle East.He barely speaks a lick of Russian, and this is not the best time for his employer's supposedly brilliant mind to succumb to the confusions of hypothermia.





	1. Мех и без хлеба | Fur and No Bread

Sebastian Moran had not gotten along well with following orders blindly in his army days. He is now older (and dishonorably discharged) but is still learning to control his temper and reckless urges. Sebastian is learning to hold his tongue but mentally questions everything. His bullheaded nature and cynical intellect are as deeply engrained within him as they have ever been.

None of these failings made him an entirely awful soldier. In many ways, Sebastian Moran was the man you wanted on your team, not necessarily because he was likable, but because he'd get the job done. Whether he got the job done or not without you getting shot at was likely something your other army mates would take bets on, but that was because the man had more adrenaline than sense.

He still lives his sorry life directed more by adrenaline rushes than reason.

Then and now Sebastian often finds himself in trouble for his rash and rarely subtle thrill-seeking behaviour, but he also often manages to charm his way out of bad situations. During a tense moment in some Godforsaken desert campsite Sebastian Moran's silver tongue came in handy with angry locals. He had grown up the son of diplomat in Iran, India, and various other Middle Eastern locales long enough to learn many of the various languages used therein, and a little bit of manipulative flattery, if little else.

This childhood has left Seb with a permanent tan even in summers consisting entirely of only the dreariest of London rain. He curses in Farsi when he wakes from troubled dreams still and Iranian stew remains his comfort food when left to his own devices.

Not that Sebastian gets much time of his own these days. Oh no. He only gets enough time without his delightful new employer breathing down his neck to discover some hitch in an otherwise genius (but generally perilous) plot.

As such, Sebastian Moran is thoroughly displeased but not remotely surprised to find himself bundled off to one of the coldest countries he can think of. Sebastian Moran can speak more languages than he can list in any one sitting, so of course he barely speaks a lick of Russian. His employer seemingly delights in putting Seb at a disadvantage at every opportunity.

Not that Sebastian truly minds, even if he gripes in his head about it. Seb likes being challenged. He lives for it.

Jim Moriarty gives him that. As exhausting and exasperating as working for the fickle criminal is, the difficult nature of the job is what keeps Seb's interest in it.

That and… something less tangible about the small-boned Irishman. Sebastian tries not to think about this other perk, but every now and then Seb notices things about his interactions with Moriarty. It's almost as if sometimes the infamous criminal mastermind somehow… breaks character… just for a moment or so. It happens just enough for it to set Sebastian's nerves on edge, and Sebastian Moran is not a nervous man.

Seb is, however, the son of Lord Moran, and he knows a thing or two about being manipulated and conditioned. The moments that make Sebastian feel the most trusting or grateful are the ones he ought trust and rely on the least.

Even if Seb cannot stop thinking about them.

Like the time Jim Moriarty had scoffed at the ski jacket Sebastian had bought for this unwanted trip. Despite how utterly frustrating Seb's employer can be at any given moment, Moriarty had ensured Sebastian has a heavy, fur coat for arriving in Russia and by God is Seb glad of it.

He has never been so bloody cold.

The coat can only do so much, whether well-intentioned or ill. It has been a long day, and the seconds keep creeping onwards. Seeing as Mother Russia seems determined to freeze his bollocks right off, Seb is none too pleased that he is left waiting in this miserable cold.

He is supposed to be meeting Moriarty. Sebastian Moran suspects his employer views him as an amusing, pet assassin, something to toy with that isn't immediately breakable but perfectly expendable. It is unsurprising that the little prick chooses to be late. It's so typical of the entitled, little sharp-toothed runt. 

Damn it's cold. Freezing cold. Seb puts up with this erratic, unfair treatment because the money's good and every other job would be boring… but he is far from enjoying this. Even his eyelids feel cold. It hurts to breathe the icy air.

Restless and somewhat bitter about the situation, Sebastian reminds himself this is not the sort of job that gives you a P45 on the way out. It's more likely to be a .45 in the back of the skull, which Seb reckons would be the nicest of the likeliest options where bloody Moriarty is concerned.

Still, the meeting time comes and goes. Jim Moriarty is absolutely the sort of little… delight… who would changes plans on a whim and not bother to tell you, but Moriarty should currently be flanked by a personal security team and at least one of them should have had the foresight to update Sebastian of the seemingly new situation by now.

More time passes and Sebastian's irritation becomes uneasiness. He is already desperate to move and leave seeing as his muscles have long since felt fit to start him shivering in an attempt to recoup some of his bitterly lost body heat.

Sebastian Moran gets in his hired car, curses at having to drive in the bastarding snow, curses at his inability to properly read the Cyrillic road signs, and curses the SatNav's insistence on berating him in a language he barely understands as he makes his way to the back-up rendezvous point.

There is no one here.

Buggering fuck. Sebastian's stomach starts to tighten in a way he hasn't felt since the army. He doesn't know why he doesn't just abandon mission right there and then. Perhaps he has some ingrained worry that Moriarty will make him live out the rest of his days here for such a slight.

For whatever reason, Sebastian gets back in the car and drives as swiftly as he dares to the last place he knows Moriarty to have been. Somehow Seb manages to avoid black ice and Russian police. It feels like the last luck he might have as he pulls up to his destination.

Red in the snow, even though the snow has been falling for hours. That's a lot of blood.

Sebastian grimaces out of the windscreen but there's no way he can tell the exact circumstances without getting out and having a closer look. Some of the bodies he has to pull out of fresh snow to identify, but if there was much sign of a struggle he'd need to bring the world's largest hairdryer to find out.

There's no shortarsed Irishman in a bespoke suit and a perpetual smirk amongst the dead or the dying. Sebastian does not know if that brings him relief or merely further worry. He finds Moriarty's car but it's in no fit state to drive: dead man behind the wheel has careered it into a bollard with enough force for the vehicle to be undriveable. The paint scrapes now on said bollard are probably the closest this grey part of the neighbourhood has ever had to any colour.

Feeling sickened, Sebastian Moran returns to his own car. There has been too much snow for any potential tracks to show. All but the worst of the city's grime is coated in crisply twinkling, murky white.

His increasingly aggravating employer seems to have a thing for theatrics, song-song voices and fairytale references. Seb leans on the cold steering wheel and wonders, 'Where are your breadcrumbs, you fucker?'

For lack of anything better to do, and loathe to wait, Sebastian decides to drive back to Moriarty's hotel. The visibility is almost as poor as Seb's understanding of what the SatNav is saying, so he drives slowly.

If he hadn't, he might not have seen the little _fucker_ stumbling down the side of the road.


	2. Вы не сошли с ума? | Are you stupid?

“Boss!” Sebastian rolls down the window and calls out into the biting cold.

Moriarty seems confused at first. He spins clumsily at Sebastian's voice and staggers in the snow. The small man tries to right himself but his movements are sluggish and Moriarty falls hard.

Alarmed that his employer may be injured, and likely hypothermic given the below freezing temperature, Seb parks the car haphazardly and gets out quickly. He trudges over to where Jim is now kneeling in the snow and making no effort to get up.

“Boss? You okay?” Seb asks.

Moriarty leans back and grimaces, not at Sebastian or their surroundings, but rather blankly. It makes the bigger man uneasy. He hopes the confusion is hypothermia and not excessive blood loss, because there's not a whole lot he can do about the latter in these conditions.

Not that hypothermia's a fucking walk in the park out here either.

Moriarty mumbles something that sounds like 'spleen'. It sounds more like cursing than a direction.

Sebastian kneels and does his best to perform a pat test on his employer to check for bleeding wounds. Moriarty is neither his usual haughty nor sarcastic self during this interaction, and that worries Seb too. Still, no bullet holes make themselves known, and Seb cannot help but give his employer a relieved smile.

“Тигр? | Tiger?” Moriarty says.

Sebastian blinks. “In English, please, genius. You know my Russian is lacking...”

Moriarty stares through him a little, then frowns. “Я уже совсем замёрз. Идём домой! | I'm so cold. Let's go home,” he says.

“Что? Я плохо говорю по-русски | What? I speak Russian badly,” Seb reiterates. He is feeling increasingly stressed.

“Алло? Вы не сошли с ума? | Can you hear me? Are you stupid?“Moriarty asks with a derisive wrinkle of his nose.

Sweat prickles down the back of Sebastian's neck, leaving him feeling further chilled than the biting wind has already managed. “Boss. Английский | English.”

Moriarty cocks his head with a perplexed expression. “Английский? | English?” he repeats quizzically. His lips have a blueish tinge.

Sebastian yanks the smaller man closer, pulls off his gloves and searches for blood in Moriarty's hairline. The scalp is damp with falling snow and perhaps sweat but Sebastian's fingers do not come back bloody. Thank Christ. Seb finds a bump that makes Moriarty flinch and dive out of the way with a hiss and a glare, so the confusion and refusal to speak English could be either the head wound or hypothermia. It could still be the Irish prick's dickish sense of humour, but Seb gets the worrying feeling that his employer isn't playing a game right now.

Sebastian swallows. “Right. Let's get you in the car and get you warm, shall we?”

Moriarty gives him an uncomprehending and irritable look in response.

Sebastian pulls Moriarty to his feet and notes the smaller man's unsteadiness is not due entirely to the slippery conditions of the road. Moriarty seems unimpressed and downright ready to act wilful, and Seb is not prepared for that. The little man is in no fit state to be throwing a tantrum, and in all honesty, Sebastian's too cold to stay out here in these conditions much longer himself.

Seb wracks his brain. “Вставай! | Get up!”

Moriarty gives him a look that suggests Sebastian's pronunciation leaves something wanting, despite the fact that his Irish drawl around the unfamiliar words is already slurring from the exposure to such coldness, but Seb doesn't care about his employer's snottiness as long as they can both stop kneeling in the snow and ice. He can feel Moriarty's shivers right up his own arms.

The car is a sparse few yards away, but it takes an inordinate amount of time to herd Moriarty in the correct direction. The brunet seems to want to slump down and perhaps take a nap, but Seb is not having any of that, not least because Moriarty is responsible for his livelihood.

Sebastian reminds himself that the hypothermic will naturally appear apathetic, uncoordinated, and uninterested in helping themselves. Moriarty is not, for once, deliberately making things difficult: the extreme cold creates a cooling effect on the temperature of the brain, and a cold brain is a slow one. Perhaps right now Sebastian's brain is actually more competent than Moriarty's – he won't dare point this out to the Irishman later, but it's mildly amusing to take note of.

Providing the circumstances don't become anymore serious.

“Автомобилей | Car,” Sebastian urges.

“Я знаю | I know,” Moriarty says unhelpfully. He sways as Seb props him against the side of the vehicle to get the door open, and Moriarty's trembling against the metal sends an audible noise out into the surroundings. Fat snowflakes begin to fall on the car's upholstery and do not immediately thaw.

Sebastian settles Moriarty in the vehicle. The ordinarily volatile Irishman slumps against the seat and pats at Seb absently. “Молодец! | Good boy,” Moriarty mutters.

Even in the car the Irishman's voice is a chilled cloud. Sebastian is mildly glad of the help this gives in monitoring the smaller man's sluggish breathing. Providing Moriarty stays conscious this should be okay. Manageable. 

If Moriarty drifts out, well, Seb will just have to hope that his biggest worry with CPR for the little tosser is breaking those birdlike ribs.  
“I'm going to get you a blanket, then you're going to need to take off these wet clothes,” Sebastian declares.

Moriarty gives him a pointedly blank look.

Seb ignores his employer and goes to the boot of the car. There are a number of useful things in here: a decent medical kit, rock salt, a foldable multipurpose shovel, tarp and duct tape and flares and matches. Seb notes the metal thermos – he can melt snow in there later if need be.

Sebastian lifts out two wool blankets and a heat pack. He returns to Moriarty.

“Пальто | Coat,” Seb says briskly.

Moriarty looks down at himself. The snowflakes -and the shards of ice from his fall- have started to melt in the heat of the car.

Sebastian tugs at the clothing and thinks hard. “от. Удалить | Off. Remove.”

Moriarty fumbles with his buttons sluggishly but he is in no way as dexterous as usual. Sebastian reaches down to help.

Seb takes off Moriarty's boots as well, then socks and trousers, right there on the side of the road. Moriarty doesn't seem to understand that this is in aid of keeping him warm, but he lets it happen with an air of sleepy apathy. Sebastian bundles Moriarty under the blankets leaving only the brunet's face exposed, then retreats and closes the car door to try to retain what is left of the enclosed space's heat.

Sebastian cracks the heat pack but doesn't hand it over just yet. The sudden increase in temperature would be painful for Moriarty. Given how cold it is outside, the sudden increase in heat could actually cause the man significant damage, even heart failure. That's something Seb would very much rather avoid.

Sebastian returns to the boot. There is a further blanket under a bundle of cables and jump leads. It smells a little oily but Seb ignores that in favour of returning to the car. He gets in and pulls off his fur coat and wet boots, dumping them aside.

Sebastian drapes the blanket over his shoulders and shuffles over to Moriarty. Despite what the movies might say about sharing body heat, undressing and sharing skin to skin contact in this state would merely sap Seb of his warmth without bringing Moriarty back up to an acceptable temperature. Sebastian huddles close and passes the heat pack through the blanket to Moriarty. The Irishman at least has the sense to accept that. He doesn't complain when Sebastian gently tries to rub some heat into the thin arms either.

Ideally Sebastian would like to give the man (or indeed, them both) a hot drink to warm them back up, but there's nowhere around that resembles a café.

They need to get moving. Sebastian wants to ask what happened and what sort of danger they are in, but his employer is blatantly in no fit position for a sufficient briefing. Seb has to make a decision: stay here long enough for Moriarty to heat up and potentially be a target for whoever shot up the others, or start driving in the hopes of finding shelter?


	3. окно | Window

The snow keeps falling. It might slow down whoever shot out the rest of the protection team, but Sebastian knows that enough wet snow can clog up the car's exhaust pipe and turn the confined space into a gas chamber. His head is already starting to hurt and he hopes it's just the stress, not carbon monoxide poisoning or the cold shutting down his hippocampus.

The conditions are not great for driving in. Sebastian tries not to panic. He thinks of driving through sandstorms and how exhilaratingly easy it would have been to have gotten lost in any of them forever. This isn't so different really, except he's not excited at all.

He just needs to get them both out of here, and the only way to do that is by staying in the relative warmth of the car, where they are at least protected from the cutting wind. His cheeks feel burnt from that already, and Moriarty's are much worse. The windows are wound up again to keep at least some heat captive.

Sebastian drives on and makes the first turn he possibly can out of the area in hopes of finding clearer roads. He makes it wider and slower than he would drive anywhere else, already detesting driving in these conditions. Seb can barely see the road signs even if he could make out the cyrillic characters, and his boss is currently in no humour to be helpful with that. There are a few cars around despite the terrible weather and Sebastian tries his best to keep well back from them despite his urgency. It wouldn't do to career into one of them should he discover a patch of black ice.

Traffic lights and the odd human make it harder to avoid quick stops and starts, or even collisions, but Sebastian's reflexes are sharper than most even in this freezing cold.

He needs to get them onto a straight, flat stretch of road where he can really get them moving, but it can't be so underused that they will end up stuck in the snow. It does not help that he barely knows the area.

Where can they safely go? If there was still another member of the team left Sebastian could have had them look up hotels or even a safehouse whilst he drove, but Seb cannot do both at once. He needs to get them away from here.

Dachas. On the way into the city from the airport Sebastian had noticed a number of empty holiday homes on the outskirts of things. He should have enough petrol to get to the edge of the city, and an empty house would be a far better shelter than this car. If they can make it that far.

If not, Sebastian will just have to crack open a window, huddle up with the boss for warmth, and wonder whether carbon monoxide is a worse way to die than gunfire.

With the way their luck is going, Seb foresees the combination of strong winds and heavy snowfall toppling trees or powerlines in their way. If they are blessed, an object overly burdened with snow will fall behind them and slow any pursuers.

Sebastian tries to create heat friction on the cold steering wheel and hopes for the best.

“How are you doing back there?” he asks Moriarty. “Warmer?” He can't crank the heating any higher.

Moriarty ignores him. Sebastian tries to briefly check him out in the rearview mirror.

No eye contact, but a normal amount of blinking at least. Sebastian might have to pull over at some point to check the fine-boned man is warm enough. It's difficult to tell whether Moriarty has enough self-preservation instincts right now to even put his tiny hands under his armpits for warmth.

Still, if Moriarty doesn't actively rub his hands together or otherwise keep moving to help his muscles produce heat at least that makes it less likely that the blankets will fall off.

The little bastard gazes out of the window almost serenely. “Какие высокие сугробы! | These snowdrifts are so tall!” he says. “Kакая метель разыгралась. | What a snowstorm broke out.”

That Russian thing is starting to worry Sebastian, on top of everything else. He thinks he hears a word that maybe means snow, but then he thinks snow is actually 'Cнег' so he must be wrong.

Moriarty glances forwards as Seb mumbles, “Sneh?” to himself a few times with a crinkled forehead.

“Да, Снег идёт, дурак | Yes, it's snowing, you fool.”

Sebastian glances up to the shorter man's reflection in the rearview mirror. “I'm recognising your tone, but if you're going to say anything I can understand you're going to have to use a language I actuality know.”

Moriarty stares through the bigger man for a moment. He then curls his lip in disgust and curls further into the blanket. “Блин | Damn,” he mutters.

Sebastian's jaw tenses. He knows when he has been dismissed. “Fine, I'll just deal with the mess we're in myself, shall I?” he murmurs. There is a mixture of exasperation and gloom in his voice, but he can feel a burning panic in the tightness of his muscles.

This morning there was more than thirty men actively involved in keeping Moriarty safe. Sebastian was supposed to fit in as a member of the relief shift – an equally large number of men and the odd woman.

There is now no team leader to tell Sebastian what to do. There is no second in command. There isn't even a driver to focus on these frozen hellscape roads whilst Seb tries desperately to consider the best plan for survival.

All of them are now dead and likely already hidden under the neverending snow. Sebastian forces himself to breathe deeply and think logically. He has lost entire teams before. He has no time to spare thinking about the personalities lost, or even the why or how. He needs to get the boss and himself to a safe shelter, and then find out whether there's anyone left to regroup with.

He's pulled enough faces out of the pink snow already to know there's no higher ranking member of the team left alive. Still, if he can make contact with someone from the organisation back home perhaps he can call in reinforcements.

At the very least Sebastian would appreciate finding Moriarty a medic for that bump on the head.

They are out of the city at last.

Trees. All Sebastian can see outside the car is a spotty few feet in front of the car, fat snowflakes, and through those, the dark outline of trees. Sebastian grimaces. The snow is getting too thick to see if any of the boughs are overladen enough to fall, and even if there are already blockages on the road he is unlikely to see them until he is almost on top of them.

Despite the car's closed windows the air is becoming thick with the smell of the foliage. It's a welcome change from the cold, damp scent in Sebastian's nostrils but it does not do much to raise his spirits. The car is creaking along at a crawl now, thoroughly battered by the snow and the wind.

There! The twilight sun catches off of something and through the bosky shapes Sebastian makes out a large window beneath a mansard roof.

If they are being pursued this building is the first dacha anyone will come to. That doesn't matter: the weather is far too dangerous to risk driving any further.

Sebastian hopes this is a summer house and not a converted all-year dacha, because if anyone is at home they won't be easy to bury in the frozen ground. He tries to meet Moriarty's gaze again in the rearview mirror.

“We'll be indoors and warmer soon, alright?” Sebastian says.

Moriarty doesn't seem to understand what Seb says, but the brunet catches sight of the cheerfully painted wooden structure in the distance and some comprehension lights his dark eyes.

Sebastian feels a sliver of relief and navigates his way through a half-hidden track through the dacha's land. The trees have kept enough snow from the private road that the car has a fighting chance, but Sebastian recognises that even if the thick snow proves too much for his car the dacha is within walking distance.

Still, Seb would rather not have to push the car out of sight of the road when he could rely on driving closer to the building.

Moriarty shoves one of the blankets aside with vague interest. “Молодец... | Good boy...”

Sebastian glances around briefly. “I swear to God, Boss, don't you dare get out of this car before I know it's safe in there...”

Moriarty ignores him and reaches for the car door.

Sebastian curses and regrets not having child locks on the handles, then belatedly realises he is lucky the Irishman isn't currently attentive to what he is saying. “ _Please_ stay in the car for a second!” Seb calls out to the brunet.


	4. Крышка. Перенапряжение. Слои. Сухой. | Cover. Overexertion. Layers. Dry.

Naturally, Mr Moriarty does what he damned well pleases, and hops out of the car before Sebastian has even managed to kill the engine. Seb sighs with aggravation.

He parks the car and notes with irritation that Moriarty has trailed the blankets into the snow, making them wet, cold, and entirely less effective. Sebastian turns around, swallowing a rebuke for his employer, and feels a stab of concern at the smaller man's uncoordinated stumbling through the snow. Moriarty is obviously still not in a good way.

Still, there's no point capturing and herding the fickle little bastard if there's no safe shelter to barricade the little bastard into. Sebastian strides on ahead to examine the house for occupants.

There's no car visible, which might be a good thing, but there's also not much petrol left in their own car if they need to leave. Sebastian makes a quick but thorough circle of the dacha. He expects to find Moriarty waiting for him on the porch or having wangled his way into the building somehow already, but instead Seb encounters the sight of Moriarty sans his coat sitting in a mound of snow, shivering, and looking frighteningly confused.

Sebastian runs through the deep snow as best he can towards the brunet. He heaves little Moriarty to his feet only to hear a mumbled response that sounds slurred even with Seb's lack of fluency in Russian.

Seb picks up the tiny Irishman and wades back through the path he has made in the snow towards the dacha. Moriarty slumps bonelessly against Sebastian's shoulder as the big blond analyses the door. Seb feels a shock of something that must be panic as he feels Moriarty's breath hot against his fur collar.

There's no time to unlock the door skillfully, Seb decides, and breaking the glass to open it seems like a bad idea for the reasons that Mr Moriarty seems in no fit state to take care around broken glass, and also Sebastian does not know whether there will be anything within the house he can use to block up the resulting draft once they are inside.

Sebastian sets Moriarty down. Had they been in a warmer climate, and if Seb wasn't as panicked, he could probably have kicked the lock in without putting the Irishman down. This doesn't feel like a time to impress however: this feels like a time for urgency and efficiency.

“ОЧеНЬ хорошо | Good job,” Moriarty mumbles.

Sebastian glances at the man. He's not certain exactly how much Moriarty is currently aware of their situation, but that last bit, 'kahr-a-SHO' sounds a bit like Clockwork Orange's 'horror show' so perhaps it's praise.

Sebastian listens intently. Nothing concerning other than Moriarty's sluggish breathing. Seb closes the door behind them to prevent Moriarty wandering off into the snow again and performs a quick recce of the building's interior.

They're alone. That's good, except for the fact that Sebastian doesn't bloody know what to do.

He's sure there's an acronym for this – or at least, for tackling hypothermia. He very much doubts there's an acronym for being stuck in a hostile foreign country with a hypothermic psychopathic boss who refuses to communicate in English.

“C.O.L.D.” Sebastian mumbles. Cover. Cover is the first one. He's seen dry blankets in the bedroom. Sebastian sweeps Moriarty up, gets bitten for his effort, and carries the ungrateful prick through.

“I'm trying to preserve your life here,” Sebastian complains. He tugs at his employer's snow-soaked clothing, hoping the smaller man will get the hint and undress. Instead Mr Moriarty curses at him and goes for Seb's eyes.

Sebastian captures the cold man's frozen little fingers and breathes deeply. He very carefully pushes down the instinct to slap his slight employer like an unruly brat.

What the fuck are the words he needs? “Мокрые | Wet,” Sebastian says stiffly. “холодной | Cold.”

Moriarty regards him with eyes dark with mistrust, but nods slowly. He shrugs Seb off angrily and unfastens his clothing.

“Спасибо | Thank you,” Sebastian says with gratitude and a terribly English accent. He pulls back the thin, summer duvet and steps away from the bed in what he hopes seems an unthreatening gesture.

O. Overexertion. Seb's in more risk of that than Moriarty, providing he doesn't rile the little devil. The cold is making Mr Moriarty sluggish, so he won't be creating enough sweat to chill himself. Hopefully.

L. L..? Layers? Sebastian looks around the room and gathers any ornamental blankets and dry overcoats from the wardrobe that he can find. He feels a further stab of annoyance at Moriarty for dropping his blankets into the snow. Seb will have to go and dry them out once Moriarty is well enough to be left that long on his own.

Mr Moriarty fusses a little as Sebastian cocoons him in layers, but his lethargic Russian cursing washes over Seb's head. The blond will worry about angering his employer once he has secured the volatile man's life.

C. O. L. D. Hopefully not Death… Dehydration? Dry! Sebastian mostly has that one sorted, although Moriarty's scalp is wet with melted snowflakes. Seb fetches a towel from the en suite and dumps it on Moriarty's head before stepping back and making a towelling motion. The Irishman glares and tries to dry his hair, but his numb fingers make the efforts clumsy.

Sebastian steps forward to help, but then takes a step back with palms raised when his employer narrows his dark eyes further.

“I'll see if the power's on,” Sebastian says. “Make you a hot drink.”

“говорят по-русски | Speak Russian,” Moriarty snaps.

Sebastian gives him a blank look. He points towards the ceiling, where a lightbulb casts no brilliance into the dull room. It will be too dark to see by mere twilight soon. “Power,” Seb says, because he has no idea how to say that in Russian. He mimes curling a blanket around himself. “Горячие | Hot.” Seb mimes holding a glass to his mouth. “Напиток | Drink.”

Mr Moriarty stares for a beat then nods dismissively. He returns to trying to towel dry his damp hair.

Sebastian reaches for the lightswitch on the way out. Nothing. He hopes for some good luck and heads for the fusebox.

Thank fuck. He feels a surge of relief upon seeing that the dacha's rightful owners have merely switched the power off for winter. The dwelling creaks and buzzes into life as electricity surges back to its objects.

Sebastian follows the fresh droning of the fridge to the kitchen. He tries the tap and praises it when clean water trickles out steadily. Seb fills the kettle and switches it on. He wanders around the cupboards until he locates mugs. He pulls one down and then remembers he is fucking miserably freezing too and puts out a mug for himself.

Sebastian peels off his damp layers whilst the kettle boils and pokes around until he finds where the dacha's heat source resides. He almost cries when he sees the cyrillic characters on it. The kettle clicks and he retreats back to make drinks. Maybe once Moriarty is thawed out he will be able to read the boiler's writing.

If not? Seb will have to settle for drawing curtains, blocking underdoor drafts with strangers' clothing, and sharing personal space with his employer. Best not to think about that.

Sebastian picks through the pantry and manages to find what he's fairly confident is diluting juice. He mixes the liquid with the freshly boiled water then adds some cold to ensure they don't do themselves an injury with the sudden heat within their cold bodies.

Mr Moriarty accepts the drink with the first thing approximating a smile since Sebastian became embroiled in this mess, but it quickly darkens to a glower. Moriarty's hands are still numb and clumsy.

Sebastian sets his own mug aside and tries to help the other man drink, but Mr Moriarty makes it clear that this action is likely to get Seb scalded or struck with bits of shattered pottery.

Sebastian retreats and considers his options. He is entirely out of his depth and would very much like to call for back up, but he doesn't know who to phone. Most of the big players in Mr Moriarty's protection teams were face down in the snow earlier today.

Sebastian is at a loss. His personal phone has no signal, and his burner phone is almost out of juice. He doesn't know whether he'll be able to find a cable to charge it with.

Sebastian steps out of the bedroom and does what he always does when he is utterly adrift. He makes a face and then he helplessly dials his big sister.


	5. Cестра | Sister

Christabelle Moran's voice is an immediately comforting warmth in the cold, unnerving day Sebastian has been having. He feels some of the ice of anxiety freezing his chest begin to thaw.

He takes what he feels is the first real breath since he noticed Mr Moriarty and the team were late. “Chris,” he breathes.

“You sound stressed,” his elder sister states.

“Yes,” Sebastian sighs. He rubs his forehead and the back of his neck. “I'm out of my depth, I think.”

Christabelle audibly leans forward attentively. It makes Seb feel safer. His sister always takes him seriously, and usually has valuable solutions to his problems. From so very far away, Chris says, “I'm listening. What's your situation?”

Sebastian opens his mouth to speak, then hesitates. His surroundings are quiet, and he called her for a reason, but he's wasting time now, what is he doing?

“We're on a secure line,” his sister declares shrewdly.

“I'm somewhere in Russia,” Seb blurts. “Everyone but my principal is dead but I don't know what happened. He's hypothermic; I don't know how long he was out in the snow for but I've broken us into a house and tried to get him warm.”

“How are you physically?” Chris asks. Her voice is warm but calm. She's always calm no matter the emergency, so it's almost easy to forget for a moment the danger he is potentially in.

“A little cold still,” Sebastian admits quietly. “I've got a warm drink and took off my wet layers. I'm out of the snow. My burner's almost out of charge though, and my main phone has no signal in this godforsaken hellhole.”

“I'm already tracing your location,” Christabelle says. Of course she is. She's not a soldier (former or otherwise); she's smarter than him. She sounds like she is staring at a screen, but Seb cannot hear keys clacking. That suggests she's using her own tech rather than the clunkier keyboard at her workplace. Good. It's probably better for them both that Chris' employers don't know too clearly what her brother is involved in doing for a living.

“Are you bundled up?” Chris asks. Her voice is knowing, loving, and softly chiding all at once. “I can hear you pacing. Also, do you have any injuries?”

Sebastian makes an embarrassed noise in response. She's right as always, and he should know by now to take better care of himself. At the very least, he can't protect Mr Moriarty if he is unfit to do the job. “I'll grab a blanket or something in a minute,” he promises. Seb examines the bite Mister Moriarty has given him. “No real injuries, but my toes are froze.”

“Grab a blanket _now_ ,” his sister admonishes. There is a ping from near her. “Got you,” she says. Her soft confidence warms Sebastian somehow. “There is a phone registered to the locus so you ought to be able to call me from a landline if yours cuts out.”

“There's a landline?” Seb says alertly. “I didn't see one.”

“Try a cupboard,” Christabelle suggests. “The owners might have just bought the line for internet access, but they should still have a phone. Get warm.”

Sebastian lifts a folded tablecloth and twists it around his shoulders as he starts the hunt. “On it. Are you able to tell where the owners are?”

“The property is registered to a family who have a bigger house in the city, so you shouldn't have them to worry about if you're lucky,” Chris says reasonably. “Do you know if you're being followed?”

“Not that I saw, but it's barely possible to see your nose in front of you in the weather out here, and I didn't see any of the killing go down,” Sebastian says dubiously. He's concerned about that likelihood, but between his numb feet and his mental employer he's got enough immediate concerns to focus on. He hopes he has no visitors.

“Do you know who you were working with? I can put my feelers out,” Christabelle says. Ever-connected. She's a bit like his boss in that way.

“Barely,” Seb admits. He's not built like them. He's point and shoot and shoot again just for fun. “It's not my job to assess, just do as I'm told, and half the team only spoke Russian.” He rattles off a few names and puts aside his mug as he spies some wires in the back of storage space. “I think I see some cables; hang on.”

It's a cramped spot but Seb manages to pull out some wires which are tangled around what he hopes is a working phone. This, at least, he should be able to set up without instructions in written English.

Sebastian grins as plugging in the dusty object causes a robotic chirrup to sound alongside the sudden flash of a pulsing red light. “It's charging,” he tells his sister hopefully.

“If it doesn't work and your mobile dies I'll send someone round,” Chris says.

Sebastian stills. “You've got people near here?”

“Nearish, it's a big country,” Christabelle says. She sounds mildly distracted, which means she's researching and analysing as she speaks. “I'd rather send a friend though; I'm establishing who's available just now.”

“My boss isn't probably someone your colleagues should meet,” Seb says.

“Oh, I'm aware,” Chris says dryly. “Quite a nasty little criminal you've got writing your cheques this time.”

Sebastian flinches his shoulders. Their lines of business are rather different these days. Politically at least. He says, “The pay's good.”

“The job's dangerous and you've got a hardon for anything likely to get you killed,” his sister responds bluntly. She's not wrong really.

The phone chirrups again and the small bulb turns green. Excellent. “Trust me, it's a lot more fun getting shot at in the desert than this stupid job,” Seb says.

“I can bring you home if you like,” Christabelle suggests.

Sebastian bites his lip. He appreciates what she is offering, but… he's not quite ready to go. He says instead, “I'm going to try calling you with the landline. You should be able to reach me through the missed call number.”

“Is your little Irish cutie as pretty as your tiger?” Chris counters.

Sebastian flounders for a beat. Of course she will have looked up his employer. “I didn't have a hardon for the tiger,” Seb grumbles. “I was just… hunting.”

“Well let's see if you can manage to keep your internal organs inside yourself this time,” Christabelle says. “I don't hear you dialling.”

Sebastian rolls his eyes and obeys. His broad shoulders relax slightly as the call registers.

“Got you,” Christabelle says.

“Great,” Seb sighs. “Now, speaking of work, what do I do about a hypothermic principal?”

“Firstly, switch to the landline so I can trace your mobile with the last of its juice if you need to run,” Christabelle commands. Once Sebastian does so, she continues, “I imagine you've insulated your surroundings as best you can and are trying to keep him warm. Is he conscious?”

Sebastian reaches for his still-warm mug and carries it through to the bedroom. “Still conscious, but kind of confused. I think he hit his head so it could be that. Little bastard only seems to understand Russian suddenly.”

“And your Russian has not improved greatly, I suppose?”

Sebastian makes a derisive noise in response. “How's yours?”

“Weak, but better than yours,” Christabelle says. “Do you want me to speak to him?”

“Promise not to put words in my mouth?” Seb asks.


	6. Моя сестра и лжец | My Sister and The Liar

Sebastian does his best to carry the landline through into the bedroom he left Mr Moriarty in. The phone wire won't stretch all the way over, and the limited battery life of the recently charged phone causes an irksome bleeping chastisement when Seb moves the handset too far from its cradle, but he manages. At least it's not the sort of old phone with a coiled wire that his principal could attempt to throttle him with.

Mr Moriarty watches with narrowed eyes. “ты чё бляДь? | What the fuck?”

Sebastian sighs and gestures mildly with the phone. “Nothing bad… uh… horror show? Speak please? Rooski?”

The glare the Irishman gives is near equal parts irritation and the type of disgust that normal people would be able to digest into pity. Moriarty seems unable to decide whether he is more irked or frustrated by Sebastian's ineptitude, but he reaches for the phone anyway.

“Здарова | Hello,” he drawls tersely.

“Алло | Hello,” Christabelle says. “Себастьян не говорит по-русски. Вы хорошо? | Sebastian doesn't speak Russian. Are you well?”

“Ϲука, ты кто? | Bitch, who are you?” Mr Moriarty questions.

From the slight intake of breath Sebastian hears he surmises that 'sucker' is rude in Russian too, but even in the unfamiliar tongue Chris uses he can hear that she is using her calm voice. “Его сестра. Он очень переживает о тебе. | His sister. He's worried about you.”

Moriarty's dark eyes slide over to Seb. “Почему? Всё отлично! | Why? Everything is fine.”

“У голова? У температура? | Your head? Your temperature?” Chris presses. “Как делишки? | How are you?”

The dark-eyed man glowers. “Раз повторяю: Я не таю обиды; Я не болен. | I repeat: I am not hurt; I am not sick,” Moriarty says.

There is a brief beat of quiet.

“Хорошо, проехали | Okay, let's forget about it,” Christabelle says, changing tact. “Себ в порядке? | Is Seb okay?”

“Моран Замечательно… были я нуждаюсь в корове. | Moran is remarkable… were I in need of a korova,” the Irishman responds scathingly. He trails his gaze up and down Sebastian's form, lingering for an uncomfortable moment, then turns his attention back to the phone with a haughty twist of his white neck. Seb feels a prickle of something that might be unease, or his body finally thawing out.

Chris gives an audible snort that Sebastian manages to hear from where he stands awkwardly. “Ну, уж извините! Я с вами не согласен! | Excuse me, but I disagree with you!” she responds. “Мой брат является единственным выживший вашей команды и он, вероятно, спас ваш неблагодарный себя. | My brother is the only survivor of your team, and he has likely saved your ungrateful self.”

“Быть Лучше всех не приравнивается к Быть хорошему. | Better than everyone else does not equate to being good,” Moriarty says.

“Истинная мудрость. | True wisdom,” Christabelle says dryly. “Он ценен для меня. Он здоров? | He is valuable to me. Is he well?”

“Для чего бы ни? | Whatever for?” Moriarty asks sourly. “Идиот не может вообще говорить по-русски. Даже не пытается. | Idiot can't even speak Russian. Doesn't even try.”

Sebastian is actually trying to follow the conversation, but that largely happens to involve listening out for words that sound similar to those in languages he actually knows, being attuned to Moriarty's every microexpression, and trying to listen out for telling pitch changes in his elder sister's voice.

It currently sounds rich and dry, almost like she's being in some way sardonic or humorous, but the words remain elusive to Seb. He hopes his sister is not being sassy to the Most Dangerous Man in London™ but she rarely tends to let her mouth get the better of her with anyone other than their father.

Sebastian's not so good at keeping his mouth shut near his father either, but he's also not so good at holding his tongue at opportune moments. This bodyguarding career is one of the only times Seb is used to not speaking his mind damn the consequences, and he's not so convinced there isn't a relationship between his name being put forward for this job and the happenstance that he doesn't speak the native language.

Christabelle tells Mr Moriarty, “Вы не использовали его для его языковых навыков, я уверен. | You didn't employ him for his language skills, I'm sure.”

“Я наняла его не для того чтобы он стоял в чужой спальне. носить мокрую одежду либо, и все же здесь мы. | I didn't employ him to be standing in a stranger's bedroom wearing wet clothes either, and yet here we are,” Moriarty replies dryly. He looks Sebastian up and down. The blond cannot understand a jot of the conversation, and it is difficult to tell whether he is being spoken of or just the only thing to look at in the room, but Seb feels his mouth going dry at the way his employer speaks as he looks at him.

Chris makes a noise of annoyance. “Он в мокрой одежде? Я его убью. Заставьте его надеть что-нибудь сухое. | He's in wet clothes? I'll kill him. Get him to put on something dry.”

A dark brow rises in Moriarty's pale face. “Как что? Мы выбрали это место основываясь на его способности предоставлять одежду для причудливо широких плеч Морана? | Like what? Did we pick this location based on its ability to provide clothing for Moran's freakishly broad shoulders?”

“Однако вы чувствуете, о плечах моего брата-идиота, не могли бы вы, пожалуйста, просто получить его во что-то сухое? | However you feel about my idiot brother's shoulders can you please just get him into something dry?” Chris sighs. “И согреть его! | And keep him warm!”

Sebastian gets the eerie sensation that his employer is amused. Mr Moriarty drawls, “Ты хочешь чтобы я Раздевается моим идиотом Сотрудника и согрела его? Он обычно позволяет своим работодателям раздевать его или я просто особенный? | You want me to undress my idiot employee, and keep him warm? Does he habitually let his employers undress him or am I just special?”

Chris sounds crisp and droll, but the only word Seb can interpret is 'malchick'. She tells Moriarty, “Мне все равно; просто остановить его от переохлаждения, не так ли? Я уверен что если вы дадите ему суровый взгляд и сказать ему чтобы раздеться он будет хорошим мальчиком и повиноваться вам. | I don't care; just stop him from getting hypothermia, will you? I'm sure if you give him a stern look and tell him to undress he'll be a good boy and obey you.”

Moriarty breaks eye contact with Sebastian and gazes at the phone as though intent on Chris' words. He asks, “Как я могу сказать ему раздеться, когда мальчик-идиот не говорит по-русски? | How am I supposed to tell him to undress when the idiot boy speaks no Russian?”

Sebastian swears he hears his sister raise a brow just from the inflection of her voice. “Английское слово "undress", но это может быть не ваш самый интересный вариант. | The English word is 'undress' but that might not be your most fun option,” she drawls. “Мне не нужно знать ваши методы, обеспечивающие вам держать его в тепле | I don't need to know your methods providing you keep him warm.”

“Он знает, что ты пытаешься заставить меня сексуально домогаться до него? | Does he know you're trying to get him sexually harassed?” Moriarty questions in faux innocent tones.

Sebastian shivers. Perhaps he should make another warm drink, but he does not feel inclined to move away.

“Он знает, что ты хочешь? | Does he know you want to?” Christabelle asks bluntly.

Mr Moriarty snorts and looks Sebastian dead in the eyes. The blond freezes. The Irishman says, “Он слишком глуп и не достаточно храбр, чтобы осмелиться. | He's far too stupid and not nearly brave enough to dare.”

Chris' voice sounds funny. She says,“Мой брат может удивить тебя своей храбростью. | My brother might surprise you with his bravery.”

Mr Moriarty gives Seb a downright sharklike look. He purrs at the phone, “До тех пор, пока он не удивляет меня, будучи несоразмерным. | As long as he doesn't surprise me by being disproportionate.”

Chris snorts. It comes unexpectedly to Sebastian but Mr Moriarty's expression suggests it fits whatever conversation they are having in their private little language. “Такого рода неуместные разговоры в порядке, не так ли? | This sort of inappropriate talk is fine, is it?” Chris snarks.

“Травма головы. | Head injury,” Moriarty says breezily.

“Вы звучите довольно Ясный. |You're sounding rather lucid,” Christabelle says archly. “Я заметила. | I did notice.”

Mr Moriarty leans back on the bed as far as the phone will allow. “Больше чем он должен знать. | More than he needs to know.” He rolls onto his stomach. “Будьте ягненка и объяснить, почему мой телохранитель имеет Сестра, чей знание русского языка гораздо сильнее, чем его собственные, так что я могу проверить его храбрость. Ваша грамматика ужасна, если вам не все равно. | Be a lamb and explain why my bodyguard has a sibling whose command of the Russian language is far stronger than his own, so that I can test his mettle. Your grammar is appalling, if you care.”

Something has changed in the atmosphere of the conversation; Sebastian can feel it. Moriarty's body language is more relaxed but the skin around his dark eyes has grown tighter.

Christabelle says, “Вы невнятно весь этот разговор, так что вы должны знать, что я посылаю кого-то, чтобы убедиться, что никто из вас не умрет. Попробуйте закончить играть врача с моим младшим братом к тому времени, когда она прибывает. Возможно, если вам повезет, невинный мальчик не будет считать, что психически слабый человек не может согласиться, даже если он соблазнитель. | You have slurred this entire conversation, so you should know that I am sending someone over to ensure neither of you die. Do try to have finished playing doctor with my little brother by the time she arrives. Perhaps if you're lucky the innocent boy won't consider that a mentally feeble man cannot consent even if he is the seducer.”

Jim Moran hangs up dismissively. “Моран! папочка говорит 'undress,' дорогая...” | Moran! Daddy says 'undress', darling.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm tired, out of practise and overreaching, so apologies for what are likely to be numerous grammatical issues (and maybe my spelling somewhat too). I hope it makes enough sense! >.<'


	7. Большинство Мужчин | Most Men

Sebastian stands momentarily frozen. He wonders whether perhaps _he_ has a touch of hypothermia and has begun to imagine things.

“S-sorry, what did you say?” Seb stutters in the direction of his employer.

Mr Moriarty rolls dark eyes at him. “'Undress', Моран… Или ты глупая?| Undress, Moran… Or are you stupid?”

Sebastian looks down at himself. He tugs at the tablecloth around his shoulders wondering whether the instruction is chastisement for the kitsch and presumably ugly fabric, or… a direction to find some other way of getting warm (surely not joining Moriarty under the covers) or… or… Mr Moriarty just said to undress for some very difficult-to-understand reason. Which Seb does not understand.

The blond's fingers are still a little too numb to properly feel the textures of the embroidered tablecloth, but Sebastian can still feel the throb of the bite his principal gave him, so perhaps this is real. 

Mr Moriarty gives an impatient look that makes Seb's insides quiver.

“Вы меня понимаете? | Do you understand me?” the Irishman drawls. One dark brow rises amidst Moriarty's pale face.

Sebastian swallows. His heart is pounding nearly as much as it did when he was pulling his more experienced colleagues' bodies out of the red snow. “Я... не понимаю | I don’t understand,” the blond says slowly. He searches Moriarty's eerily superior expression for better guidance and hopelessly repeats, “Я не говорю по-русски | I don’t speak Russian.”

Mr Moriarty leans back in the bed and all but his piercing eyes and dark scalp disappear beneath the blankets. “Вы не сошли с ума? | Are you stupid?” the man drawls.

Sebastian is uncertain whether he has thawed out, or whether the unintelligible purr of his principal just sent his blood flooding out to the telling areas of himself. The blond swallows uncomfortably and hoarsely asks, “Вы говорите по-английски? на всех? | Do you speak English? At all?”

Alarmingly, Mr Moriarty simply chuckles. Gaze trailing from Seb's flushed throat to his uneasy expression, the Irishman stretches out in the rather comfortable-looking bed and says, “Замечательно, ну чего ты не? | Remarkable, are you not?”

Sebastian shifts his weight from one foot to the other. It sounds and feels like his employer is toying with him, and that ought not make him feel the way it evidently does, if Seb's physical responses are to be believed. Sebastian is almost _certain_ Moriarty just told him to undress a moment ago, and as much as Seb wracks his strained little brain he cannot think of any Russian word he could be mistaking.

And there is also the heated way Mr Moriarty is looking at Sebastian, but perhaps that is a hypothermic delusion on his or both of their parts.

“Моран! Иди сюда. | Moran! Come here,” the Irishman orders.

Seb hesitates. That sounds like a command based on the tone, but he doesn't know the words after his name.

It feels awful to ignore an order from his principal, but what else can he do? Sebastian stares at the other man beseechingly. 

“Моран! | Moran!” Moriarty barks again. This time he slaps the bed beside himself as he repeats the order. Sebastian guesses the jist and trots to his employer's side.

“Сидеть | Sit,” commands Mr Moriarty.

Seb's blue eyes remain blank and the skin above them creases helplessly.

Moriarty snatches his employee's thick wrist and pulls sharply. Sebastian flinches but permits the grip. He gives Mr Moriarty a questioning look.

Moriarty taps the bed again with his free hand and yanks further with the hand making a valiant effort to cut the circulation from Seb's wrist.

Sebastian warily lowers himself onto the bed. He wonders whether perhaps Chris asked Mr Moriarty to ensure he was warm enough? That had to be reason for this proximity… right?

Moriarty reaches for Sebastian's clothing. Seb raises a hand but doesn't dare block his employer's grip. The blond freezes, uncertain and scared of misinterpreting something awfully.

“Извини, что я нагрубил | Sorry, I was rude,” Mr Moriarty says in a tone that sounds downright sarcastic. “Извините, пожалуйста. | Excuse me, please.” He yanks hard at Sebastian's clothing. Pointedly.

Sebastian swallows hard.

He fumbles for his buttons and - after a nervous look at his employer for confirmation - removes his shirt.

“Чудесно! | Wonderful!” says Moriarty. He makes a point of looking thoroughly and appreciatively at Moran's large, scarred and sculpted chest lest the imbecile fail to realise these actions are not at all innocent.

Moriarty reaches for the other man's belt buckle and tuts when Moran stiffens. “Не обижайся | Don’t be offended,” the Irishman drawls.

Sebastian thinks he might choke on the vigour of the pulse in his throat. He's certain his heart has gotten itself lodged somewhere around his Adam's apple too.

Mr Moriarty slaps lightly at Sebastian's thighs. Seb obediently drops his trousers.

Moriarty lifts the quilt and Sebastian nervously allows himself into the welcome heat.

“Как ты себя чувствуешь, Интересно? | How do you feel, I wonder?” Mr Moriarty purrs. He runs his small, pale, and finally warm hands over Sebastian's hard abdominals.

Seb tells himself in no uncertain terms that his employer is trying to keep him warm after being out in the extremely cold weather for so long and in no way would it be at all appropriate to show pleasure, excitement, or blatant arousal at the touching.

Mr Moriarty chuckles darkly in the direction of Seb's groin even though the blond tries to shift his weight to draw less attention to his tented underwear. “Не волнуйся, у тебя всё получится. | Don’t worry, everything will work out,” the Irishman murmurs seductively.

Sebastian thinks he might die. This is not how he imagined that happening, but he cannot say he is displeased.

“Я уже совсем замёрз, Тигр. | I'm so cold, tiger,” Moriarty purrs. “Ты мне не поможешь? | Won't you help me?”

Sebastian does not need to understand Russian to know that phrase was pure seduction. It oozes from the little man's pores and drips from that lilting, frustratingly gibbering, sensual voice.

Sebastian wants to throw a leg over the smaller man and pin his very sexy, somewhat terrifying, downright electrifying boss to the mattress.

Sebastian knows better, sadly. He tries to communicate with his eyes and very careful – respectful! - touches that he very much would like and appreciate it if Mr Moriarty felt ever so kind as to climb on top of him please and thank you.

The Irishman's burning gaze suggests he is very much inclined to do so, but then Seb has a horrible and sensible thought: Mr Moriarty is likely not in his right mind.

Something in Sebastian's insides curdles in misery, but he puts a hesitant hand on his employer and clumsily asks, “вам. Нормально? | You. Okay?”

Moriarty narrows his bewitching eyes and curses Christabelle Moran's earlier wisdom. Moran thinks him some brain-addled invalid – the _nerve_. To reject this!

“Я здоров | I am healthy,” the Irishman growls.

Sebastian wills himself to call to mind any fucking Russian. He reaches to gingerly brush his employer's scalp near the sensitive bump from earlier. “голова? Нормально? | Head. Normal?” Seb asks.

Moriarty is certain he deserves a medal for not punching the moron. “Тебе нужно это сделать? | Do you have to do this?” he asks sharply. “Всё хорошо!| Everything is fine.”

Sebastian's shoulders creep upwards placatingly. It's hard to shrink his frame down apologetically when he is as big as he is, but he tries. What's the word for 'sorry'? “Прошу прощения | Apologies,” Seb stutters out.

Mr Moriarty gives him a withering look. “Эта суета, Квинси Проделай? | This fuss, do you have to do it?” He presses both warm palms flat on Sebastian's chest and pushes down. Seb grunts softly at the sudden weight and freezes as his employer swings a leg over to straddle him.

Wow. He's really, really warm. Also...

There's definitely no non-sexual way to interpret this, right? Seb's terrifying principal is absolutely, certainly… straddling him. Sebastian makes a soft noise of distress in his throat and wonders what the penalty back home would be for taking advantage of being seduced by a hypothermic Mr Moriarty with a visible head injury.

“Нехорошо? | Not good?” the Irishman _straddling his fucking lap_ asks with an expression that suggests he doesn't really care whether Seb is appeased or not.

Sebastian swallows. 'Не' is not, right? Not horror-show… so 'not good'? The big blond bites his lip and groans. “Depends on your definition of 'good',” he mutters. “This would be _great_ if I knew you really wanted to, but since I don't… it's kind of torture, and not the good kind.”

Moriarty gives Seb an outright chiding look for his unintelligible English ramblings. “Заткнись | Shut up,” Mr Moriarty says pointedly, and he covers Sebastian's mouth with one of those warm hands.

Sebastian gives him big blue eyes that spell 'willing' in any language. Still, the broad expanse of chilled chest is still tight with tension, and neither of Moran's hands have reached Moriarty's body. Not that the moron ought dare.

Mr Moriarty grinds pointedly against the larger man. “Да? | Yes?” the Irishman asks smugly.

Sebastian Moriarty makes a most emasculating keening noise. He nods vigorously. Fuck, fuck, fuck, this is happening! Actually happening!

“Молодец! | Good boy,” Moriarty mutters. “Всё будет хорошо… Если я не убью тебя после этого. | Everything is going to be well… If I don't kill you afterwards.”

Sebastian shivers. His principal's voice sounds honeyed and deadly and delicious. “Я не понимаю | I don’t understand,” Seb pants softly. “ _Английский._ Я плохо говорю по-русски |English. I speak Russian badly.”

“Ой, я извиняюсь | Oops, I’m sorry,” says Mr Moriarty, sounding very sarcastic, “Думаешь, я забочусь о твоих потребностях? | Do you think I care about your needs?”

Sebastian gives the other man a searching look before gasping and whining with soft, agreeable _need_ as Mr Moriarty drags his nails and toasty-warm, practically burning fingers down Seb's cold chest. The burn and the sting feels odd in the cold room, but then Moriarty is shifting, moving down Sebastian's body, and oh fuck his breath is a welcome heat. Even better than the blankets.

Mr Moriarty digs his nails in a little deeper, the little hellcat. Blood spills out and warms Sebastian's skin. Seb hisses and mentally curses the language barrier. It makes him feel oddly inadequate, despite his arousal being prominent enough to do his principal an injury if the little bastard isn't careful.

“Неплохо? | Not bad?” the Irishman smirks.

Sebastian gives him a heated look and wonders whether grabbing the smaller man's arse in both hands could be considered a sackable offense.

Mr Moriarty bows his dark head and Sebastian almost thinks the breath ghosting his tender skin foretells kisses, but then the wicked fucking bastard _bites_ him.

Seb yelps and his hand flies to the other man's shoulder defensively, but before Moriarty can do more than look up at him Sebastian softens the grip. “Warn a bloke first, eh?” Seb says a little weakly. “Or warm up to it. Jesus.”

The little dark-eyed devil gives an eerily mischievous look. He noses towards Sebastian's hand and kisses it, teeth showing but not biting. He licks at the cool, tan skin.

Sebastian gives his principal a mistrustful but appreciative look.

Moriarty nibbles, licks and bites his way up the big man's arm towards Seb's chest and neck. Seb groans a little. “Hе дать себя в обиду | Stick up for yourself,” the Irishman purrs into the sensitive skin of Sebastian's inner bicep, then bites down.

Seb moans and pulls the smaller man firmly towards him. “Fuck… Vicious little thing, aren't you? Boss.”

Moriarty arches a brow and bites and sucks a purpling path along the bigger man's shoulder and throat. “Храбрый Мальчик | Brave boy.”

'Malchik'? _Boy_? Sebastian lifts his head in indignation.

Moriarty notices and chuckles. “Ой, простите.Ты понимаешь это, не так ли,Тигр? | Oops, I’m sorry. Understood that, did you, tiger?”

Sebastian pouts and leans in to mouth at his principal's pale neck. Boy, indeed!

Mr Moriarty bats at him impatiently. “Нет, спасибо. Положите рот в другом месте, если вы должны. | No thank you. Put your mouth elsewhere if you must.”

Seb takes the rejection with confusion and tries to discern the meaning of his employer's words from the devil's expression.

Mr Moriarty makes a disgruntled noise and pulls back. Sebastian opens his mouth in alarm to protest – he is willing to be a very _good_ boy after all – but then the Irishman grips Seb by the back of the head. And pushes.

Oh.

Well it's not kissing, but Sebastian is hardly going to turn _that_ down, is he? He flips over and scoots close to his employer's … raise? Assets? Sebastian is lucky the man doesn't understand English right now because it used to seem clear that the Irishman was a mind-reader.

“вам нет другого выхода | You have no choice,” Mr Moriarty smirked. “Тебе придется проглотить меня. | You're going to have to swallow me.”

Sebastian has no idea what is being said, but it sounds smug, and he likes that. He presses his face close to his principal's groin, inhales, and hopes he can have this added to his job description.

Seb opens his mouth and licks a long path. He kisses, and licks, and ever so gently nips at the skin he would very much like to get to know better.

How does he ask..? Oh yes. “Хорошо? Нехорошо? | Good? Not good?” Seb questions urgently.  
“Чудесно! | Wonderful!” Moriarty answers.  
The idiot blond stares at him blankly.  
“Хорошо | Good,” Moriarty says drolly.  
His principal's expression is not overly enamoured, but Sebastian is sure the man said 'good'. He bites his lip and hesitates, then crouches back down. He always thought he only had to listen to the breathy sex noises to understand whether someone was enjoying themselves in this situation, but now Seb is not so sure…

“Рука | Hand,” Moriarty commands, pulling one of Sebastian's over himself so there can be no confusion. Sebastian gladly sets the pace. Moriarty makes a gesture to speed up and Seb does so readily, moving his lips back to where they belong. “Чудненько | Very good,” the brunet above him says generously.

Sebastian sits back suddenly. That sounded pleased, but it's hard to be sure when Mr Moriarty usually sounds sour even when he isn't speaking in fucking Russian.

“Извините, пожалуйста, как я могу найти ваше лучшее применение, если вы настаиваете на остановке? | Excuse me please, how can I find your best use if you insist on stopping?” Moriarty snaps.

“Прошу прощения! | Sorry!” Sebastian blurts. “Я - | I -”

“Если ты еще раз скажешь мне, что не поймешь, я стучу тебе зубами в горло | If you tell me one more time that you don't understand I am going to knock your teeth down your throat,” Moriarty warns.

Seb blinks. He can tell by his principal's glinting, narrowed eyes that he is being scolded, but-  
Moriarty growls and yanks Sebastian closer by the hair. “Твое горло, моя голова | Your throat, my head,” the Irishman says darkly as Seb tries not to choke at the (welcome) suddenness. Sebastian likes this. Most men wouldn't dare grab him and push him down to fuck his throat, but small as Mr Moriarty is, he is not 'most men'.

“Некоторые зубы | A bit of teeth,” gasps Moriarty. He tugs Seb's hair again and growls, “ _Только_ немного | _Only_ a little...”

Sebastian closes his eyes for a second then pulls back a little. That didn't feel like a 'go faster' hair-pull. “Мне нужен... переводчик |I need an interpreter,” he sighs.

Mr Moriarty chuckles, and Sebastian doesn't think it is only at his pronunciation. “О да, но не твоя сестра, да? | Oh yes, but not your sister, eh?” 

Moriarty indulgently snaps his jaw and points at his sharp, white teeth. Understanding dawns in Seb's gaze and he dives down to obey.

“О, да! | Oh yes!” Moriarty responds. “Отлично! | Perfect!”

That sounds positive. Seb smiles around his principal's pleased dick and gets to work happily.

Mr Moriarty grunts and settles, squirming his hips up into Sebastian's throat. Seb grazes his teeth carefully over the delicate skin and does his best not to gag as his principal grabs his skull and fucks his mouth vigorously.

Seb could very much get used to this. If he can manage not to pass out from lack of oxygen.

Eventually Mr Moriarty's fierce thrusts become tellingly erratic. The Irishman makes no suggestion of letting go, and whilst Sebastian can be a generous lover, he's never really minded other people forsaking proper etiquette.

Especially when they're not as hot as fucking Moriarty and deadly in a way that doesn't involve guns or fancy martial art moves.

Heat erupts in the back of Seb's throat, and finally Moriarty releases his painful grip on Sebastian's hair. Seb rubs at the sore skin but misses the contact instantly.

His principal pulls away.

Sebastian swallows and wipes at his mouth with the back of his large hand. His lips are swollen and fetchingly red. He is more than double Moriarty's size, but he looks up at the Irishman with blindly hopeful obedience. Seb would like to do that regularly, please sir.

Moriarty looks the big blond over. His thin lips twitch upwards wryly. “Замечательно мальчик | Remarkable boy.”

Sebastian's still not keen on this 'boy' malarky, but he thinks that sounds like praise, so he'll take it. Seb doubts his typically self-absorbed employer has any intention of returning the favour, so sits for a moment and enjoys feeling warm again.

Moriarty raises a brow when Moran makes no move to as for reciprocation. With a chuckle, the Irishman stretches out in the cosy bed. “Лучше всех, Не так ли,Тигр? | Better than everyone else, aren't you, tiger?”


End file.
